Thursday, April 25, 2013


In a frenzied state,
The barrel of a gun,
His eyes entranced
This not perchance,
The removal of waste
The shifting haste of unexpected new space
Another case of downward spiral,
His indecision, what to do with it—
As if an agitated mule, a distasteful spit,
A defensive kick,
Quit this shit
Preserve the lesser self
He tells himself,
The selfishness of steaming stealth
Most obvious to everyone
Gun pointing
Out into the world
Unfurling curl
Rising from the temples of his head like smoke
Cooking mind
Craters already formed
Seeming deeper
Darker keepers
Of too painful
Truthful secrets
Stored away,
Trigger left
Vultures fleeing the remains of body left unpicked
White sands rolling over
Filling up
The holes in his logic,
A trick the mind has not pulled off,
Soft, smooth undulating calm,
Desert balm,
Buck puts down the gun,
An appearance of grace
Erases grimace
A smile forms upon his face,
Inside and out,
The quiet mind,
Sifting through white rolling sands of time,
Texture fine,
A glistened shine,
He has come to appreciate
Like hope and fate
Only looking,
Letting go.

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